A Pinch of Jorian: Ficlets and Drabbles
by readithoney
Summary: A series of short ficlets. Jorian snapshots. Sweet and sour drabbles. Splash of John, dash of Dorian. All Jorian. All the time. No rules.
1. Mortality

**Mortality**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

Human frailty has always been a challenge for John Kennex, but sleeping next to a man who doesn't age had the tendency to send him into absolute fits of desperation interleaved with insomnia, ceiling staring, and mattress thumping.

Dorian, perfect and untouched by time or disease, locks into stasis when he charges and almost never wakes to John's late-night paroxysms. He also doesn't wake when John rolls himself up in all the covers or spends undue hours playing tap games on his phone.

Tonight, John can't get the image out of his head of himself as an old man, standing next to Dorian who looks as perfect as he does right now. He swallows hard and looks up, waiting for the unshed tears to absorb back into his brimmed eyes when a soft hand lands on his belly, snakes around and draws him in close.

Fuck. If there was any chance of not crying now, he'd missed it.

"S'wrong?"

Dorian knows he isn't going to tell him, his hands rubbing circles, smoothing lines.

John presses his face into the soft shirt.


	2. Short-Order

**Short-Order**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Dorian can follow instructions like nobody's business, which makes him a passable cook.

John can barely stand to obey his GPS and has, up until this point, survived on a diet of take-out foods, ready meals, and more often than he'll admit, just skipping dinner. The upside to Dorian taking up residence in his space is the android's deep-laced desire to nurture his partner with food and other domestic comforts. John can leave his wet towels on the bathroom floor and his clothes wherever he steps out of them and magically, everything will be washed and put away.

As for the food, Dorian does his very best while John hones his skills as a critic.

"Bland."

"What is bland?"

"Literally everything," John pokes at a sensible portion of mashed potatoes, lazily sculpting.

"You haven't tried the green beans yet," Dorian offers, "I found an article with a recipe on how to season them perfectly."

John stabs one and examines it. Then shakes it off his fork. "I'm not into this, tonight." He claws at his neck, looking away.

"Just try it," Dorian leans forward, accidentally raises his voice, "Just _eat_, John." He emphasizes with a thump to the table. The plate bounces a little.

An awkward, buzzing, seething silence.

John picks at the food, his tongue thrust into the side of his cheek. Darts his eyes up, "So, um, is your charge low?" he asks quietly, cautiously.

Later, he sleeps on the couch.


	3. Acting Out

**Acting Out**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

John sat in anger management group therapy. It wasn't working. In fact, nothing in his day to day life made him as angry as the hour he spent in the stale, depressing community center meeting room. He looked around with sharp eyes, deeming every trainwreck in the room a failed human. This included the therapist and himself. He even gave the robot serving coffee a sideways look, noting that it made an irritating humming noise and probably needed to be replaced.

Dorian was waiting outside the room for him to finish and that was fucking obnoxious. He was all too aware that one of the DRN's many "secret" duties was to shuffle him off to group and make sure he stayed.

There was only one door, no windows, no escape.

_Godmotherfuckingdammitsonofabitchfuck. _

His turn to get talked at. He'd tried everything to get this therapist to release him, call him cured, end this monotony. Smiling didn't work. In fact, she had told him it was off-putting. Pretending that he was no longer angry in a calm, even, cordial voice had only resulted in her antagonizing him with facts that absolutely justified his anger in the first place. Being despondent and unreachable had landed him in Maldonado's office. So as she addressed him now, asking him how he was feeling, he calculated his response.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I was distracted. What?"

"Distracted by what?" the therapist asked, curious, cautious. The unruly detective had a tendency to run his mouth about other members of the very unstable group, many of whom could be considered ticking time-bombs of raw human neglect. The way some of the others made eyes at him when he put on his show, she often wondered what prevented Kennex from getting his ass beat in the parking lot after the sessions.

"I'm in love," John confessed. Chairs rustled. Interests piqued.

The therapist smiled and scribbled on her pad. John steeled himself for the next part of his scheme, which he deemed the get-out-of-this-room-full-of-losers plan. He knew this wasn't going to get him off the hook, but it might mean he could move on to a different group. Or maybe Maldonado would splurge on some individual sessions instead of this "gathering" bullshit. He turned to the wide-eyed murderer-to-be next to him, a rage-filled tyrant with bandaged hands from his last eruption, and planted a crushing kiss on his hideous lips.

A minute later, John limped out of the room with a pink piece of paper in his hand, a busted lip, and rapidly swelling eye. He also had a great big smile on his face.

Dorian observed him in shock.

"Good newths!" John whistled past his missing front tooth.


	4. When in Rome

**The Fall of Rome**

John pulled a soft, red blanket off the back of the couch. This was the worst March in his memory. They'd been snowed in for three days. The bay surrounding his apartment was a jagged field of broken ice chunks and his windows were murky with frost. Their apartment was freezing in the winter months. The windows were poor insulation, the floors were uncarpeted, and John's gas bill rivaled his electric bill, which had spiked since Dorian started charging on his dime.

He was grumpy and cold and worst of all, he was bored. Dorian was reading—which was always awkward because he just sat on his couch staring at nothing. All of the reading he did happened inside his head, in his own programs. Sometimes he would smile, or gasp, or chuckle. John wanted Dorian to stop reading and pay attention to him but he was above asking for that.

He wrapped himself in the red blanket and moped into the bedroom, flopping on the bed on his tummy. Peering over the edge of the bed to the rug on the floor, he saw a small strip of green fabric and reached down to grab it. He pulled up a skinny, green necktie that Dorian had worn on their last night out, insisting that one of them have a little color in their wardrobe. Rolling onto his back and sliding the silky material through his fingers lazily, John fondly remembered slipping it off Dorian's neck that night.

The wind blew harsh and cold outside, rattling the windows and forcing the malcontented man to curl deeper into the blanket. Above the bedside clock, the date and time hung holographic in the air. It was the fucking motherfucking middle of March and they were balls deep in snow. March 15, his lips tugged up into his cheeks. _Beware_.

John observed the green tie in his hand, held it up to examine it and then tied it neatly around his head. A makeshift laurel. Then he stripped naked apart from his socks because _fuck_ the floor was cold. He unmade the bed, yanking the top sheet off and wrapping it around himself like a toga—he had at least learned something from his first few years in college. Topping off his outfit, he threw the red blanket around his shoulders and tied it around his neck like a cape. Now he was, in fact, Julius Caesar.

He took on a regal persona and marched down the hall toward his republic. Entering the room with an air of superiority, the dictator strode before his lowly android and stood, arms akimbo, in all his glory. "Come Brutus, the theater awaits!"

Dorian was reading and, given John's penchant for making a lot of noise when he huffed around the house, had turned off all external sounds. John waited a moment longer, still holding his glorious pose. Then he grumped and slumped his shoulders and waved his hands in front of Dorian's face. No response.

"Fine, Brutus," he said, his voice reverting back to the ridiculous lilt he'd adopted for the role, "I shall deal with you forthwith!"

He grabbed his umbrella from the stand by the door and held it like a sword. Then he climbed up onto the couch, standing beside Dorian and placed the umbrella on the back of the Android's neck. "I sentence you to death!" he proclaimed, raising the umbrella high above his head and bringing it down on the back of Dorian's shoulders rather hard.

Dorian snapped out of his reading and blinked in shock. He looked at John who was standing beside him on the sofa, dressed in a sheet and a blanket, wielding the umbrella.

"What are you doing?" Dorian asked, "Did you hit me? Is that my good tie?"

"Quiet!" John bellowed, "I have sentenced you to death for your insubordination!"

"Oh, did you?" Dorian asked, annoyed. He was enjoying a little personal time in the small apartment and John couldn't give him even an hour to himself.

"Oh absolutely," John said, widening his stance, "For I am Caesar and you have displeased me."

"John, do you even know what happened on the Ides of March?" Dorian asked, batting him back.

"Silence!" John hissed, bringing the umbrella down again, hard. Dorian caught it and wrenched it from him. "How dare—"

John's last word was cut off as Dorian tossed the umbrella and shouldered into him, standing up so the rotten dictator was over his shoulder. He marched him back to the bedroom and threw him on the messy bed. The irritated android knew how to keep his human occupied, giving John almost no time to prepare before entering him roughly.

"Et tu?" John asked, grinning and gritting into the sheets.

**This was a challenge to write about Caesar!John from WeWillSpockYou because the Ides of March! **


	5. In Trouble

**In Trouble**

It started with a dirty word.

John, in the kitchen, pouring coffee while Dorian was making breakfast and blocking the fridge. This was a fucking one-person-at-a-time kitchen. It was a one-person-at-a-time apartment. "Move it, synth'."

Retribution was swift and unexpected. A sharp smack to his pajama clad ass that made him spill his coffee. "Jesus, Dee._ Don't_!"

What irritated the human seemed magical to the android. For the next few weeks, every snide remark had John scaling, twisting suddenly, protecting himself, flattening against walls to avoid Dorian's hearty swats. Nothing ever made Dorian laugh so hard as John's vulnerable, desperate, angry response to the very threat of a smack.

Try as he might, John couldn't convince Dorian of the impropriety of it all. It was simply too satisfying and had greatly reduced the venomous slights John liked to spit at Dorian around the house.

Then it happened.

Not at home. A crime scene. On the job. In public. A snide remark from John. The impact of the quick spank seemed impossibly loud. John froze, looked up at the two officers standing there, bug eyed, unsure. He turned to look at Dorian in horror.

"Mosquito," Dorian murmured, turning, walking away. Wincing. Smiling.


	6. Luck

**Luck**

John found the leprechaun in the parking garage. It was tiny and smoking a little pipe, but other than that, it didn't have any of the stereotypical features cartoons, horror movies, and cereal boxes had popularized all through his childhood. It didn't have a green outfit, a red beard, a buckled bowler hat, or even a walking stick. The little thing had been completely distracted and John was able to grab him off his perch on the concrete ledge.

He peered at the struggling creature, wide-eyed. It flailed and cursed in his grasp. The little man was dressed in a soft, sturdy looking outfit with patches of reddish fur around the collar. John correctly assumed it was squirrel leather. The small man was utterly furious about being nabbed, thus evinced by his vitriolic, high-pitched cursing.

"What is this?" John asked, turning the thing in his hands and inspecting it. "Ouch, motherfucker. You bit me." He gave the thing a quick, angry shake and it stopped struggling, dazed.

"Let me go!" the tiny man demanded, an edge of fury in his squeaking tone.

"A leprechaun?" John marveled, his brain surging into overdrive. Attempting to make sense of what was happening. He looked all around, making sure no one was playing a trick on him.

The impossible creature wiggled against John's thumb which was pressing too hard on his belly, "Figure that out all on your own, Sherlock?"

"You don't have an Irish accent," John accused.

"I'm Irish-American," the leprechaun spat.

John wondered if he was losing his mind as he opened the door to the cruiser and slid inside. He had to swing by Rudy's to pick up Dorian who had spent the night in the lab for some maintenance. Fumbling his eyes over the dash, he looked around for somewhere to put his new treasure. _Ah-ha!_ He grabbed his travel mug from yesterday's coffee and dumped the remaining liquid out the car window.

"Don't you fucking dare-" the tiny man shouted as John stuffed him inside the cup and screwed the lid on tight. He opened the sip slot on the lid so the little sprite could breathe and shifted the car out of the garage.

John was fevered over the discovery. He didn't believe in mythical creatures but the tiny teeth marks on his finger were hard evidence.

Dorian planted a kiss on him as he got into the cruiser and muttered something about missing him last night.

There was too much going on for John to respond adequately. He said, "Y'aren't going to believe this, Dee. Look!" Unscrewing the cap on the coffee cup, he yanked the little man out. The squirrel leather clothing was damp and stained with coffee grime.

Dorian took the tiny man from John and held him gently. "John…" bewilderment dressed his voice.

"Careful, that sonavabitch bites," John warned. He pointed at the abused-looking critter.

Dorian looked upset. "Did he hurt you?" he asked tenderly, apologetically.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine-" John said, holding up his finger to show the bite before realizing that his boyfriend was talking to the leprechaun. _Fucking figures_.

The pipsqueak wove a tale of woe for Dorian that made John seem like the giant at the top of the beanstalk. John scoffed all the way through, avoiding the angry sidelong looks Dorian was throwing at him.

When they stopped at a red light, Dorian opened his door and set the poor thing down on the sidewalk with an apology. In the blink of an eye, the leprechaun disappeared into the nearby park.

John looked at Dorian in shock. His mouth hung open. His eyebrows knit in fury. "You just fucking let him get away!"

John didn't notice that the light had turned green until the cars behind him started honking.

It would forever be remembered as the St. Patrick's Day where Dorian became indebted to John for one pot of gold.

* * *

**Sorry to post twice in one day, but it's St. P's day, people! **


	7. IKEA

**IKEA**

******. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

First of all, I don't want to hold hands in here. I've told Dorian this six times so when I feel his fingers pulling at my palm again, I tell him with my elbow. That works, at least until the next time.

This place is teeming with people. When I stand still, I can feel the floor tremoring under my feet from the masses. We're here for a dining room table and a few cheap end tables, so I cannot understand why we're milling through the sofa section like free-range idiots. We've been in this Swedish shit-shop for two hours and I've yet to see one thing we came here to buy.

Dorian is content to people-watch and stroll lazily through the crowd. He points to a hideous sofa, suggesting that it would bring some much-needed color to the living room. "Yeah, the color of my puke," I reply and get one of those frustrated little looks. I fucking live for those looks.

When we finally make it to the dining room table section, I've just about reached my limit. Dorian gets a serious look on his face as he scans the room for the perfect table. I know he has a 3D rendering of the apartment and can easily hone in on the ones that will suit the space perfectly. I catch my bottom lip in my teeth and look around to determine how embarrassed I should be when he wants us to sit at a table and make sure it "feels right." Actually, sitting down sounds nice right now so I oblige.

Our knees knock under the table. "Not this one," Dorian declares, dismissing the narrow furniture. He rises and abandons me.

From my uncomfortable post, I watch him hunt the room. He stops at each table in turn, passing judgment, courteously dodging other shoppers. It's so important to him, I realize, that we bring home the right thing. I feel a pang of guilt for not taking him somewhere nicer to shop, but this is where he wanted to go.

He finds one he likes and sits down, looking in my direction expectantly. I join him, peeking at the price nonchalantly. Holy shit, that's cheap. I'll buy him two if he wants.

It's roomier than the last. I can tell he likes it the way he's looking at it, inspecting the corners. He scans the holographic tag and copies the call number. I've memorized the patterns of those blue lights tracing his face but they still transfix me.

He runs his hand across the surface of the table and I catch it, hold it with both of mine. He squeezes back and looks up. The whole world buzzes and shakes around us, bodies moving and shoving, chattering and coughing until there is just a general sense of noise. I pull his hand up press my lips against the knuckle of his thumb.

"What do you think?" he asks.

"Perfect."


	8. Vernal Belongings

**Vernal Belongings **

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

Dorian observed his red-eyed, sniffling, sneezing boyfriend who was practically snorkeling in a cup of coffee. Allergies were bringing out the very worst in John Kennex. Not only were his eyebrows sewn into a furious ledge, they looked in need of a comb.

It was the first day of spring and a looming, gray haze blocked the sun and added to the ominousness John injected into every minute of their morning.

"Did you take your allergy medic-"

"Of course!"

"A nice hot shower might clear those sinuses."

"I heard silence helps."

Dorian wished the apartment was bigger and had more doors to slam as he stormed away.

Now John felt like a complete jackass. He yanked his jacket on and went out into the damp, windy dreck of March. It wouldn't help his allergies but he needed to get some air. A street vendor nearby was selling organic printed flowers and he felt a little silly buying a spring bouquet. Dorian liked sentimental shit, though.

John presented the flowers to his brooding mate by tapping him in the face with the green tissue-paper wrapped bundle.

Dorian turned his sound receptors back on and faced his hay-fevered sweetheart, his steely expression melting, lips twitching into a reluctant smile. As always, forgiveness was swift, sweet, and though John may not deserve it, complete.

They crushed the fragile blossoms into the bed, creating a potpourri of fabric softener, flowers, and sex.

When Dorian hovered his lips over the tip of John's tumid erection, he looked up into the man's eyes and instructed brusquely, "Do _not_ cum until I give you _permission_."

Nodding slowly at his tormentor and sucking at his lip, John knew Dorian would find a way to punish him. It wasn't until he was begging, twisting into the sheets, his muscles seized and aching that the android relented and allowed him release.

After, Dorian pulled the heads off the crushed flowers and tangled them into his lover's messy, sweaty hair. John had no strength to protest as he was decorated in celebration of the equinox.

The sun beat through the clouds and into their eyes through the skylight.


	9. The Foodie Blues

**The Foodie Blues**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

Dorian sat miserably at the makeshift counter in front of a street vendor peddling his pungent dishes. John was in his natural habitat, comfortably shoveling rice into his mouth from a questionable bowl. The calamari he ordered was steaming in the chilly air.

"Try it," John urged, pinching a piece of deep fried squid in his chopsticks and holding it up to Dorian's face.

Shying away, the android turned his head, "I don't eat. It would be pointless."

"What about making_ me _feel better?" John grumbled, "Do you know what it's like to eat alone? Well, no I guess you wouldn't."

John looked away, effectively making Dorian feel terrible. "Okay," the android said slowly, "I'll try it."

The brilliant smile on John's face was worth it a million times over. He picked up a crispy circle of deep fried squid meat and held it up to Dorian who took it hesitantly in his perfect teeth. "Chew it," John said, "Don't just swallow it like a big pill."

Dorian did as he was instructed, crunching on the chewy sea creature. The blue lights on his face started running patterns.

"No," John said, placing a hand over Dorian's cheek, "Don't analyze, enjoy."

Dorian grabbed a napkin and spit the horrible mess into it. He grabbed John's plate and flipped it over quickly, spilling rice and sauce everywhere, sending little calamari wheels bouncing and rolling in every direction. .

"What the fuck, Dee!"

Glowering at the man behind the counter, Dorian began to yell loudly at him in a Malay dialect. The man was shouting back. John didn't understand a word, he just felt his face grow hot with embarrassment. He was tugging on Dorian's coat and hissing, "Sit down, sit down."

The shop owner started slamming pans and shouting. He picked up a cleaver and waved it around. Dorian pulled out his badge and the disgruntled cook fell over himself to get away. Spilling hot oil into the street, it sizzled across the pavement. John groaned, picking up a piece of calamari with his fingers, giving up.

Dorian let the shop owner run away and turned to John, slapping the calamari out of his hand before he could put it in his mouth. "John, Jesus, don't eat that, man."

"You know this was my favorite place to eat," John grumbled, "_was._"

"Well then I don't know how you don't have salmonella coursing through your body. That was some seriously contaminated fryer grease, imported squid, and at least ten kinds of harmful bacteria." Dorian's face was lighting up, no doubt calling in some unnecessary biohazard team.

John looked mournfully at the ruins of his favorite deep-fried seafood haunt. He got up and headed down the street to a divey little pho restaurant around the corner. Dorian followed, still listing all the hazards that could have befallen his partner.

They sat in a booth and John placed his order. When the hot bowl of pho was brought to the table, Dorian reached for a spoon.

John wrapped his arms around the bowl protectively and grabbed a fork. "Come near it and I'll stab you!" he threatened.

John never felt guilty about eating alone ever again.


	10. Rotation

**Rotation**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

Neither John nor Dorian had been on an orbit vacation before but they were going now to get as far away from work as possible. For John, far away enough meant a two-week outer space cruise that took them around the moon and back. And if there had been a cruise leaving today that went farther out, that is the one they'd be boarding instead.

It was Richard Paul's fault. Kind of. He had walked in on them in the interrogation room, their lips locked, their hands twisting, gripping at provocative fistfuls of each other. It didn't take long for the word to spread. Everything snowballed into a long and awkward talk in Captain Maldonado's office that ended with the promise that as long as their relationship didn't change the way they worked, the board wouldn't need to be notified. They were told to cool it in public, never in the precinct again, and to keep their relationship neat and tucked away. Then she put John on paid leave so they could work things out.

They left her office, John silent and angry, his eyebrows a precipice over his darkened face. No one made eye contact as he yanked his coat from his desk chair, nearly knocking it over, and threaded his arms through. He slapped off the power on his console, shot the other detectives a derisive glance, and left the building. Dorian trailed him like a funeral procession, his shoulders rounded softly and his head down.

They got in the cruiser and sat there a moment while John breathed hard through his nose. Dorian seemed unsure where to look, eyes skipping between his lap and the window. Finally, the seething human punched the engine and drove them recklessly home.

"I can go to Rudy's," Dorian blurted as they parked the car in its designated spot. John killed the ignition and regarded the android who continued to babble. "I didn't want to do this to you, to mess up your relationships at work, to make things awkward. I could get you fired. I don't want this for you."

John shoved his car door open and got out, standing in the cool air. He tapped his hand against the roof of the cruiser and ran the tip of his tongue back and forth over his dry lips, his eyes roving the parking garage in annoyance. Nodding to himself, he slammed the car door as hard as he could.

Dorian flinched, rootless and unable to determine what to do, where to go. Then his door was wrenched open and John reached in, took hold of his coat collar, and dragged him out of his seat.

Surprised and unsure of what was happening, Dorian's eyebrows flew up toward his hairline. John ran a hand around the back of Dorian's neck and kissed his boyfriend hard, knocking them both back against the vehicle. They nearly toppled before John broke the connection, seizing Dorian by the hand and dragging him toward home.

Unused to John's enthusiasm and control, Dorian felt his emotions peaking as his lover dragged him to their shared home.

Inside, John ripped off his jacket and tossed it messily to the floor. "We're getting out of here," he snarled. "Pack your charger, pack your shit. We need a fucking vacation."

Dorian looked unsure. "I'm sorry, John. I just want you to know I'm so sorry."

John stopped and looked at him with hurt, wet eyes. "Dee, _you_ didn't do a fucking thing." He closed the gap between them, his fingers framing Dorian's face.

"You're so upset," Dorian said, his hands knotted together.

"I'm fucking mad," John agreed, "but not at you." He delivered a soft and sincere kiss to Dorian's parted lips, broke away, and walked over to the light screen, tapping it on. He looked over his shoulder at Dorian who still stood there in his coat, hesitant. "Sandra has the nerve to tell us to keep our relationship quiet. Fuck that, man."

"She was only thinking of your career, John," Dorian reasoned.

John waved him off, still booking their tickets.

Dorian watched his human stab at the air of the light screen, guilt and happiness competing for reign over his synthetic soul. "John, we don't have to run away."

John jerked to face him. "I said go get ready, Dee. And we aren't running away. This is normal, the most normal thing we've ever done. Real couples go away together and you deserve it. I'm giving you this vacation."

"I don't _need_ it," Dorian promised.

John pulled out his cell phone and charged the trip.

. . . . . . . .

John leaned naked into the huge picture window of their suite on the massive luxury liner, looking at the scarred surface of the moon. It was a desolate, pock-marked desert; a lonely mass separate and distant from the roiling landscape of life that was the Earth. He felt Dorian's hands on his hips, and soft lips on his shoulders, and he pitied the moon.


	11. Karaoke Night

**Karaoke Night**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . **

Shitfaced was a term Dorian hadn't truly understood until now. John Kennex was shitfaced. He was so drunk he was swaying as he climbed onto the stage.

Karaoke night at McQuaids. When John had seen the sign on the door as they arrived a few hours earlier, he almost made them leave. Now, a few pitchers deep, John was ready to join the party. Luckily, it was nearing closing time and the only ones left in the bar were practically asleep on the counter.

"Lookit this fucking thing," John said, holding up the microphone, "Dee, look. _look._" He slurred through Dorian's nickname and held the microphone out to him, giving it a tiny shake. "Iz this thing on?" he tapped on it, sending loud, bushy thump noises through the room, "Iz this thing turning _you _on, Dorian?" he laughed too wildly at his own joke.

"It looks like a robo-penits. Peantis...pea." John swallowed hard, "Penis," he shouted.

If Dorian had the capacity to blush, he'd be pink as a carebear right now. John gave him a saucy look, or it was at least an attempt at one. He just looked, well, shitfaced did seem to be the best way to describe it.

He ran his hands along the microphone seductively, pumping it. "Jealish?" he slurred, propping one eyebrow up.

Dorian looked at him steadily. At this point, he was filming. This was going to be perfect blackmail for later. Next time he wanted to go on a walk or run the O-course, John wouldn't be able to refuse.

John opened his mouth wide and began to jam the hand-held mic between his lips. The metal on his teeth and his throaty breathing filling the room through the speakers. He pushed until he got the whole bulbous, metal head inside.

Thank god for police-mandated vaccinations. Every person at the mic today had been practically licking it, spitting their songs into it. Putting mics in your mouth was unsanitary.

Not getting the rise he wanted, John ripped the thing out of his mouth, beer flavored drool connecting his lips and the receiver. The bar owner looked nauseous and said, "What song, buddy?"

John thought on it, his hip cocked to one side. "Paranoid Android, Radiohead," he finally said, blowing a joking kiss at Dorian.

The man shook his head and put the song on. John falsetto'd his way through the song, getting his hips down in the musical interludes. No one had a damn clue what he was saying but they were all pretty happy when Dorian carried him out of the bar like a sack of potatoes. The sticky microphone squealing with feedback as it hit the stage.

* * *

_Inspired__ by yet another image of Karl Urban choking on a dirty, dirty microphone. _


	12. Saturday Morning

**Saturday Morning **

Dorian brought John his oatmeal and handed it to him on the couch. He told himself this was the only way to get nutritious foods into his human partner and that he wasn't some kind of advanced house butler. John fumbled for the bowl without looking and Dorian had to guide it into his distracted hands.

"What are you watching?" Dorian asked, sitting down beside John and staring at the strange two-dimensional cartoon playing on the lightscreen.

"Looney Toons," John said, spooning a heap of oatmeal in his mouth. He frowned and got up, "Uhg, Dee, this needs sugar."

Dorian opened his mouth to protest but waved him off, watching as John spooned a half-a-cup of brown sugar into his cup of oatmeal, rendering the dish pointless. Instead of pointing it out, he resolved to look up Looney Toons.

"John, this cartoon is from nearly sixty years before you were born. It is over 100 years old."

"So?" John asked, stepping over the back of the couch and plopping down. He shoveled a pile of sugary goop into his mouth.

"I knew you were old fashioned," Dorian said, his eyes on the screen still. He watched a speech-impaired hunter shove a rifle up under a wise-cracking rabbit's chin. The rabbit unflinchingly explained that it was duck-hunting season, not rabbit, successfully convincing the man with the gun to hunt his friend instead.

John laughed as the hunter fired at the duck, forcing his bill to rotate around his head illogically. Dorian furrowed his brow. "Surely this wasn't meant for children."

"Course it was," John said, tearing his eyes off the screen to give Dorian a look.

"This is not teaching adequate gun safety," Dorian said, dismayed, "That duck would be dead. And by the way he's holding it, I suspect that little hunter doesn't have a license and hasn't taken any safety courses. He's in the woods so he should also be wearing something dayglo orange for his own safety."

John gave Dorian a deadpan look, smeared milk off his chin with his sleeve and shook his head, "You're missing the point, captain buzzkill." He gestured to the television, "It's a comedy!"

"Guns aren't funny, John!" Dorian said, "Children need to know that when you shoot someone, their face doesn't spin around and then magically get fixed. They die!"

"Look," John said, his mouth full, "I grew up watching this on Saturday mornings with my old man and you don't see me running around waving guns where I shouldn't be. You don't see me shooting things left and right."

Dorian stared at him, his eyebrow cocked. "_Really_, John?"

John set his empty bowl down on the coffee table with a _thunk_, the spoon rattling noisily. He gave Dorian a baleful look.

Dorian laughed and pulled at John's arm, drawing him close on the couch. "At least now I know where you got it from. Silly, old cartoons with your dad." He planted a kiss in John's messy, bedhead hair.

John smiled despite himself and relaxed back against Dorian's chest as the next cartoon started. A large android hand smoothed over John's chest until John caught it and laced their fingers.

The DRN thought it was a nice cartoon until the coyote received a box in the mail full of explosives. "If he can order explosives, why doesn't he order some food?" Dorian asked, annoyed, "And that coyote should have been dead ten times by now." and, "The roadrunner doesn't look like it has a lot of meat on it anyhow."

"It's a matter of pride," John said, rolling his shoulders back against Dorian's chestplate.

Dorian shook his head, another bad example for children. Another lesson John should have learned as a child. He'd yet to meet a man with more foolish pride than his sweetheart.

As if reading his thoughts, John sent his elbow back, slamming into Dorian's side. It didn't hurt but it did make Dorian think about the fact that John so often resorted to violence.

John sat up and pawed for the remote. He wanted to change the channel before Dorian could ruin Foghorn Leghorn, too. He turned the TV off, the lightscreen disappeared.

"Hey," Dorian said, "I want to watch."

"No way," John said, "You don't appreciate it."

Dorian tried to snatch the remote but John bolted to his feet and held it aloft. A curvy grin on his face.

"We're missing it," Dorian complained.

John dropped the remote down the front of his pants. Dorian smiled, his mind shifting gears. He got to his feet slowly, like a cat stalking its prey.

"Meep meep," John said and took off down the hall.


	13. Earth Day

**Earth Day**

**. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

"We could plant a tree?" Dorian suggested hopefully, searching online for Earth Day celebrations and activities.

"No."

"We could run a 5K?"

"_Hell_ no," John emphasized.

"We could volunteer in a community garden."

"That sounds great!" John said, smiling at Dorian. Anything to stop this endless list of terrible activities.

"...Really?" Dorian asked, caught off-guard by the amiable and positive response.

"Yeah, where should I go? Put it in the GPS."

Dorian touched two fingers to the screen in the cruiser as they drove, directing them toward a vegetable garden out in the sticks.

"This is so exciting!" Dorian said, nearly bouncing in his seat, "We can tend to the vegetables and help out in the community! And honor Earth day."

They parked in the grass by a ramshackle greenhouse. A hand-painted sign said "Volunteers Welcome" in sloppy, large letters. It looked a little worn.

Dorian popped out of the car, making a point to breathe in and analyze the fresh air. John locked the car door and shifted into reverse. He pulled out quickly. Dorian spun to stare at him.

John'd been out here before; there was an amazing steak house a few clicks down the road. He rolled down the window, "Have fun sweetie!" he called, grinning wide and waving, "I'll be back to get you in two hours! Play nice!"

Dorian's mouth hung open as John took off down the road. He folded his arms in a huff and went into the greenhouse. What a nightmare. There wasn't a damn thing growing in here other than what looked like some illegal plants way in the back. There was a homeless man sleeping on a bale of moldy hay.

Dorian called John's cell phone. No answer.

John was sitting in a booth, one leg up. The huge steak in front of him was perfect; it melted in his mouth like butter. His cell phone vibrated across the table for the fifteenth time and he smacked it off. A minute later he looked up as Dorian slid into the other side of the booth, apocalyptic fury plastered on his brow.

"How was it?" John asked casually, smirking around a big bite of steak.

Dorian's anger turned morose, "Just eat your steak, John." His voice sounded utterly defeated.

The bite in his mouth went down harder than the others. He reached over and took Dorian's hand, "Sorry, it was a mean trick. Did you plant lots of food?"

The android accepted John's warm touch and looked to the side, embarrassed. "It was just a bunch of vagrant potheads," he admitted quietly, frowning and looking down, "not a vegetable in sight."

If John didn't know better, the android was blushing. Or maybe it was just all the mahogany on the walls of the ridiculous steakhouse. He sighed and pushed the remaining steak away, his belly was straining against his pants. "Okay, okay," he said, guilt getting the best of him, "Let's go plant a fucking tree."

Dorian smiled and slid out of the booth. He was happy to finally be getting his way, but there was no way he was getting out of the cruiser without John getting out first. He'd never make that mistake again.


End file.
